Caught in the Web
by Mixed Metaphors
Summary: *BEING RE-VAMPED* Currently being totally re-written as the story Heart of Stone. Major changes are underway. Once that project is properly underway this version will be deleted.
1. Halfbreed

**Prelude**

_"The city I grew up in had no name._

_At least, I did not know it as a child. I knew nothing. By blood I was Third Daughter of House Ssarash'i, Twenty-First house of the city of __Maeralyn__, but I did not know it. No one bothered to tell me, you see. I was the forgotten child, the unwanted brat. For by blood I was also the daughter of the Enemy-whether that was humans or surface elves I was never informed-and so my 'family' despised me. _

_Now, my friend, perhaps you have heard stories like mine that begin with a romantic prologue where the parents shared a tragic forbidden love that could not last. The father was killed but the mother kept his child to remind herself, even when she came to power, of the time when she loved the light._

_Hold no such illusions here._

_The bitch that birthed me cared nothing for my father, whoever he was, or for me. The only reason I wasn't sacrificed immediately was because my mother had a much more devious mind. To please Lloth, I was to be denied the release of death. Instead my punishment for being a halfbreed was to suffer both in this world and the next. Subservient to even males, untrained, denied entry into the clergy or any such pursuit, illiterate, half-starved, ally-less, and beaten at every opportunity. I was to live hell on earth."_

_-Nadezdha Ssarash'i, speaking to her elven companion Findarato. _

**Halfbreed**

As the child awoke, the first things that she became aware of were feelings of cold and pain. That was normal; she was always cold when she woke up. She was cold when she went to sleep too. She slept on the tiled floor of the hall, behind a pillar for protection, with only her simple shift for warmth.

Pain was familiar too. It was a constant companion throughout her days. The flesh on her back and her legs seemed to always burn with it, from the ministrations of her sisters. But that day, the feeling was particularly strong. Her whole being seemed to ache, and she felt dizzy, even lying down. Her yellow eyes fluttering open, the girl let out a small squeak of fright.

Inches from her face was the bloodied, wide-eyed, severed head of a fallen drow warrior.

The ache in her small limbs forgotten, the child scrambled away from the macabre object, only for her hand to come into contact with the head's body. Stifling a shriek, with one hand, she leapt to her feet, the bells tied to her wrists and ankles chiming loudly from the sudden movement.

With practiced composure beyond her short years, the girl choked back the bile rising in her throat and studied her surroundings. Corpses like the headless soldier littered the the entire floor. Blood was splattered on the walls and statues, some of it still glowly faintly in the infrared spectrum.

Keeping her breath as even as possible, the child picked her way among the disembodied limbs and gore towards a body that was relatively intact. She did her best to ignore the mortal wound in the warrior's chest and searched around his throat for his neck-purse. When she had pulled it out from under his clothes she looked inside for the house insignia. She did not recognize it. This came as a minor relief; it meant that these bodies were not of her own house.

Still clutching the symbol, the child sat back on her heels and tried to call back the memories of the previous night. Her mind was filled with flashes of images and feelings. She could remember running through the halls, the ominous gleam of unsheathed blades, the sound of fighting, alarms, and of screams. Closing her eyes, the girl concentrated as hard as she could and attempted to pierce the fog of her shocked mind.

She had felt the tension in the air as though it had been tangible. Both nobles and commoners alike had all been grim-faced and expectant as they'd rushed to prepare and get to their posts. So thick was the feeling that when the magical alarms started it came almost as a relief. Not to her, however. The sounds intensifying the girl's terror, she had sought out the meagre protection of a statue.

She lived in one of the lower, less-defensible levels of the house and it was there that her house had been breached. Had she not moved, the soldiers might not have noticed her, but her hand, sweaty from fear, had slipped an inch along the floor. The movement had caused the accursed bells-tied to her wrists to deny her the innate drow ability of silence-to ring. She was not stupid, though, and the second she made that tiny betraying sound, she had been on her feet and running down the corridor.

Some soldiers, seeking sport, had chased after her, but she knew the house better than they, and by weaving through the labyrinthine halls, she had managed to lose them. Only to blunder into another battle. There, soldiers of both houses, mostly males, struggled against each other. One, a wizard, had unleashed a blast of energy against his foes. The attack ricocheted off the wall, caught the poor child on the shoulder and had sent her spinning to the floor, where she had been knocked unconscious. Through some miracle of luck, she had survived.

Her feet were cold.

Looking around at the dead warriors, an idea occurred to the beleagered child. On hands and knees, she crawled over to the fallen drow's feet. She reached out a small ash-skinned hand to feel the fine leather of the soldier's boots. Her hand hovered over them for a moment as she chewed her lip, trying to make a decision. The expression on her small face hardened and she took ahold of the boots. It took a few strong pulls to get them off, but she did it. With some trepidation at the forbidden act she was commiting, she slipped them on. A moment later, her face crinkled with innocent delight. The boots, apparently enchanted, had molded themselves to fit her little feet perfectly, even over the bells. They were soft, flexible and warm, in all ways a blessing to the child.

She ran her hands over them, examining their beauty in every way. She discovered, on the inside, a hidden sheath, meant to hide an extra weapon. This finding made the girl pause. Did she dare? Weapons, along with almost every other material possession were forbidden to her. But if it was hidden…

Once again, she studied the sheath, memorizing the size and shape. With that she turned her gaze back onto the body. There was the knife, in the left hand of the dead dark elf. Steeling her childish nerves, she picked up the limp hand and began to work at prying apart the fingers, keeping her mind off the reality of the grim task. More than once, she heard a sick crack, but she succeeded in freeing the knife. It was relatively clean, aside from a few rusty stains of dried blood. These she cleaned off with spit and the edge of the drow's tunic. Once clean, she slipped it into sheath, her too-big garment hiding the handle and much of the boots.

For good measure, she padded over to one of her house's own soldiers and unfastened his _piwafwi_. It was too big for her, but that didn't matter. She wrapped it around her tiny frame, pulled the hood over her head and hid in the shadows of an alcove.

Nestled in a corner with her back to the wall, the half-drow child known as Nadezdha Ssarash'i snuggled in her new cloak and promptly fell asleep.

As she sank into the depths of slumber, Nadezdha's older brother, Dantal, Secondboy of House Ssarash'i stepped silently out of shadows and began the ascent to the upper levels. It was time to pay a visit to his brother. Observing his half-sister had placed an idea in his head worthy of Lloth herself.

Not that it would help her clerics.

A/N: I hope you enjoyed this chapter. After much study of the drow cities I decided to write this story in the little known city of Maeralyn. I chose this city because it is rarely used, and all that is known about it is that the inhabitants follow Lloth and it was recently invaded by the city of Jhachalkhyn. This story takes place before that invasion. In fact this story takes place before a lot of things. Keep reading and you'll find out.

Review and you'll find out faster. Thank you in advance!


	2. Unseen Blade

A/N: To those who reviewed: thank you very much! Your reviews gave me a warm and fuzzy feeling inside…hmmm…maybe I should see a doctor about that…

Anyway, on with the story!

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**Unseen Blade**

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_The best knife is the unseen one. Drow proverb_

There are things in the world that are worse than death. Grief, in all its forms, can destroy lives, insanity strips away all that was once real, and slavery…Slavery strips away everything. The world as it was disappears, taking with it family, friends, joy, and simple yet fundamental elements such as our own innate dignity. Insanity is the death of the mind, but slavery is death of the soul. Being a slave in the Underdark was particularly cruel and painful. Not only was all freedom ripped away but even the concept of dawn and light were gone forever; a symbolic removal of hope. Indeed, many slaves in drow cities forgot what the sun looked like, if they thought about it at all. They became little better than starving animals, scraping from one day to the next, bags of skin and bones who scratched at the stone walls around them and lost the ability to speak.

Of course, slaves didn't appear on their own. Someone had to trade them. Before the proverbial dust had begun to settle after House Akalabre's attack, House Ssarash'i had already started doing business again. They bought their 'merchandise' from mercenaries and sold them within hours to other noble families as if nothing had happened.

Most of the slaves were kobolds, goblins, trolls and the like, with some captured svirfneblin and duergar mixed in. Slaves taken from the surface were a rare luxury commodity, and were highly expensive. There wasn't a large number of surface dwellers in Maeralyn. There were a few dwarves and humans here and there, looking sickly pale and haggard from ill-treatment and lack of sun. It wasn't uncommon for the price of a human slave to be over a hundred gold (the average slave sold for maybe twenty-five silver, maybe thirty-five if it was in good shape), but the most expensive were surface elves. Elves, being the most bitterly despised of all the enemies of the drow, were status symbols in the Underdark. They were treated as whipping posts, a target for the fathomless and innate drow anger towards the world. For a noble house to own an elf as a slave was a subtle flaunting of power and resources. House Qu'Yond, the First House of Maeralyn, had four.

Raids on the surface happened on a regular basis with varying success. Sometimes, rarely, the inhabitants of whatever village were prepared and fought them off. Other times, the victims of the raid were completely slaughtered in the confusion of battle. That or they were too brutally injured to be of any use. However, if a raiding party had level-headed members and a good supply of poisoned darts, they would be able to collect about five or six able-bodied survivors. This particular day was shaping up to be incredibly profitable. Three wood elves, traveling back to their homeland, had been captured along with two young humans in a raid on a human farming community. This was a momentous occasion. It marked the first time the number of elven prisoners outnumbered any other prisoners taken in an attack in several centuries. The mercenaries, fiercely proud of their accomplishments, paraded their prizes through the streets of all the districts in the city before delivering them to Ssarash'i's headquarters near the centre of town.

One of the elven prisoners, Solque Willowtree, and the only female in the group, stared all around her as if she was in a nightmare. Her eyes were glazed with disbelief, and it was all she could do to keep from stumbling as she was pulled along. Perhaps if she fell and hit the ground hard enough she'd wake up… This couldn't be real…it just couldn't be. This world of darkness, of cruel laughter, jeers and whips was too horrible to exist except in cautionary tales for children.

"A willow bends but never breaks," she whispered, trying in vain to comfort herself. It was a saying her father was fond of saying when times were hard.

Her father. Solque felt a pang stab at her heart as she watched him plod along a few yards in front of her. He held his head high, ignoring the taunts aimed their way and the pain she knew his sickness caused him. The young elf was deeply worried about her father. He barely ate these past weeks and he seemed to get weaker everyday. He was too proud to tell Solque, but she knew. She was a healer after all, she could see all the signs he tried to hide. The confused look in his eyes during his dizzy spells, his skin stretched too thin over his bones from his severe loss of weight, and worst of all, the growing patches of blood on his handkerchief every time he coughed. Solque treated him as best as she could, but her limited resources were only meant to last until they reached Silverymoon, where her father's illness could be properly attended to.

What would become of them now?

His face twisted in a disgusted sneer, Yuezaz, archmage of House Ssarash'i, kicked aside the body of one of the house's soldiers, and pushed open the blasted door to his study. Once inside, he looked with some despair at the horrible mess. Soldiers simply had no proper respect for the arcane arts! Vials of healing potions, poison and other such mixtures had been smashed, his scrolls were scattered all over, some of them irreparably soaked by the spilled potions. Praise be to Lloth, at least his desk had escaped destruction, though much of the other furniture could barely hold the title of kindling.

The mage sighed, not quite sure where to begin salvaging his-once-sanctuary. He was saved from this daunting task by a soft knock at his door. Yuezaz spun gracefully around to see his brother standing on the threshold.

"Yes, Dantal?" he asked, "What is it?"

"I wish to speak with you, brother," Dantal replied, with a deferential nod to the elderboy, _about our cause_, he added in the silent drow hand code.

"Ah." Yuezaz paused, then waved his brother inside. "Come in, then."

Dantal did so, closing the remnants of the double doors behind him. On entering, he stared at the surrounding carnage with raised eyebrows. "I take it," he said lightly, "that our visitors made a bit of a mess, did they?"

"Just a bit," replied Yuezaz dryly.

The mage waved his left hand in a small gesture and muttered the the runes of a spell of silence, to ensure some privacy. When he was done, he looked up at his patiently waiting brother.

"I'd ask you to take a seat, but as you can see…" he said, gesturing at the rubble.

"I understand," said Dantal with a grin.

As the weapons master moved further inside the room, his brother once again began signing at him, _so what, exactly, do you wish to discuss?_

_It's about our sister, _replied Dantal, _Nadezdha._

Yuezaz paused for a moment, having to go through his mind to recall the name. _You mean the halfbreed?_ He signed at length.

"I do."

_What could she do for the Brotherhood? She can barely speak, _Yuezaz signed, after considering his knowledge of his little half-sister.

_She will do anything we train her to do._ At his brother's blank expression, Dantal hastened to explain, _Think about it, brother, there is nobody of drow blood who does not seek to better their station and increase their power. That child has no power and no station at all. If we were to offer to change that, she would no doubt seize it as a lifeline. For whatever service we provide for her, she would return it tenfold._

Yuezaz leaned against a pillar and pondered this. _You do have a point, Dantal. And our 'dear' female relatives would suspect nothing of her, knowing their opinion of the surface dwellers…She could be quite a useful tool against them. _A thought occurred to the mage and he frowned, _but what if the girl is too soft? Her father might have passed on his people's ridiculous notions of honour and such to her._

Dantal smirked at this. _We will simply use that to our benefit. How do you think we should win her to our cause? If she becomes loyal to her elder brothers for saving her from a life of servitude, then where is the harm to us? We merely have to twist that loyalty so that our enemies are also her enemies._

_From what I know of her pathetic existence, that would already appear to be the case. How old is the child? _Yuezaz asked suddenly.

Dantal thought for a moment, _About__ seventeen or so now. Considering the conditions placed upon her by Matron Irryra, I'd say that's a fair achievement._

_She's quite the survivor, _agreed Yuezaz. The mage stroked his chin pensively. "A drow female serving her brothers…" he dared say aloud, "It's an interesting concept to say the least, and certainly worth the experiment."

"Shall we proceed?"

_Yes, _Yuezaz replied using the hand code, _and if she shows promise, we will inform the Brotherhood._

Dantal nodded swiftly, and made one last rebellious message, before turning to leave. _Praise Vhaeraun._

Yuezaz returned it.

The time had come. Solque breathed deeply, trying to calm her racing heart. Her plan was foolish, short-sighted, but it was all she had. She simply had to see her father. She had to give him his medicine, then…then, the two of them would think of something. Her father was so calm, so wise, he would know what to do, he always did. With luck, they could escape, there had to be a way. The elf reached into her bodice, to the secret pocket hidden there, and pulled out the required herbs. Without a second thought she chewed and swallowed them. For a moment nothing happened. Nothing continued to happen. Then, like the stab of a knife, her stomach wrenched itself into a ball of pain. The cramps felt like they would tear Solque apart, but she endured them. At last, the pain was too much for her system and she wretched. She hadn't eaten more than two bites worth in what felt like three days, so very little came up. Very little besides the emeralds she had swallowed before her capture. She snatched them from the mess and cleaned them as best she could with spit and the hem of her tunic.

The drow slave traders separated their merchandise into two makeshift barracks, one for females and one for males. It was really more for the fun of tearing apart families than for any real semblance of organization. Inside, there were some assorted rags to sleep on, but not enough for all, so slaves often fought over their sleeping arrangements, only increasing the resemblance with animals. Solque tip-toed past the sleeping bodies strewn randomly about, keeping her back to the wall. Her infravision wasn't as sophisticated as that of the drow and the mercenary saw her before she saw him.

"You have them?" he asked in broken, heavily-accented Elvish.

Solque nodded, hiding her fear as best she could and opened her hand to show the jewels. "They're yours. Now let me see my father."

The dark elf snatched the gems from her, but sneered in disdain.

"Not enough."

The little elf could have sworn she felt the fall away from beneath her feet. Her voice trembled as she spoke, "It's all I have."

At this the drow's cold features twisted into a wicked smile. "Not all," he said and took a step forward.

Solque may have been young, but she was not stupid. She understood all too well what the drow meant. She tried to back away from him but she was already against the wall as it was. He leaned in and, as a last defense she raised her hands and turned her face away. The drow twisted his gloved fingers in her dark hair and roughly pulled her head back. He moved as if to kiss her, then ducked his head and bit her throat instead, hard enough to bruise. Solque struggled, trying to hit him, but her flailing hands only met with his chain mail, a more than effective protection against her weak blows. The dark elf was biting her in other places now, her cheek, her shoulder, her breast. For a moment he pulled back and, laughing all the while, he lifted her by her arms and shoved her against the wall, knocking the wind out of her. The world blurred momentarily, there was more unwanted pressure on her breast and then it was gone. Dazed, the elf fell to the ground and tried to make sense of what her eyes and ears were trying to tell her.

Two voices spoke quickly in a language she couldn't understand, one of them was coldly angry, and the other, the voice of her assailant, scared and apologetic. Solque watched as a pair of boots moved into her line of sight. She was then jerked to her feet by someone grabbing the fabric of her clothes. The new drow was dressed much more finely than the mercenary, his hair was longer and his cloak bore some sort of crest. He appeared to be haranguing the other dark elf.

"You do not touch this filth," he said, though Solque could not understand him for he spoke in drow. "They are nothing but perversity incarnate. They poison everything they come in contact with. To mix with them is a crime against Lloth herself."

Solque had no way of knowing what this drow (whose name as Commander A'einhin) was saying. As far as she knew, he had saved her from violation. It was this thought that motivated her to beg help from him. Kneeling at his feet, she tugged at his clothes until he spared her a glance.

"Please, sir, I must see my father!"

Commander A'einhin raised one stark white eyebrow. He spoke much more Elvish than most drow and understood her perfectly. He found her words odd, but decided to play along for the fun of it. He knelt down beside her and looked at her with so much calculated gentleness it would have next to impossible to tell he was insincere.

"Why, Little One? Why must you see your father?"

Solque grasped at his false kindness like a drowning sailor at straws. "He's very ill, sir. I have to attend to him."

Something shifted in the commander's eyes. Had Solque been less distraught she might have noticed it.

"You can take care of him?" asked A'einhin.

"Yes, sir. I'm a healer, sir."

"And your father is very ill, is he?"

"Yes," she whispered.

The drow commander took her chin gently in his hand and smiled. "Don't worry, Daughter of the Surface, he won't be ill much longer."

It was as if someone had taken the world and crushed it like eggshells. Solque couldn't even speak as she tried to cope with the flood of denial and fear that swelled within her. She clutched at the commander but he just pushed her away and said something in drow to the mercenary. Her attacker smiled a terrible, vicious smile and disappeared from view. There were sounds from outside, her father's voice, raised in anger, the twang of a crossbow and then all too quickly he was silenced. It was over so quickly, Solque couldn't believe it. Death is always over so much faster than we wish to think, too fast for us to deny.

Solque didn't realize she was crying.

"So you're a healer, are you?" Commander A'einhin smiled cruelly as she lifted her tear-streaked face, "I have just the place for you."

It was a very rare occurrence for Nadezdha to dare venturing into the upper levels. Her family lived mostly in the upper levels. To be near her family meant to be seen. To be seen meant to be beaten. Therefore, Dez stayed nearer to where the commoners and slaves lived. She did not like to be beaten.

But the events of the previous two days or so (Nadezdha had little concept of time) had left her both confused and curious. She had heard faint shouts of celebration from the upper levels, and everyone seemed to be heading towards the chapel. Curiousity overcame her fear, and soon Nadezdha found herself slinking through the corridors in the direction House Ssarash'i's chapel.

Nadezdha had rarely seen the chapel, only once or twice when her eldest sister G'abre had wanted to beat some fear of Lloth into her. She barely remembered it, only recalling a vague sense of uneasiness associated with it.

When she slipped inside behind a small group of latecomers, it seemed as though some sort of ceremony was about to take place. Everyone of any social importance in the house was standing at attention about the room. Around the walls were Nadezdha's cousins and a few prominent commoners, nearer to the altar, standing at the Matron's right hand were her daughters (excluding Nadezdha of course); G'abre, Zavdra and, her youngest, Fythriel. On the left were her sons: Yuezaz and Dantal. And at the head of all this, sitting proudly behind the altar, was Nadezdha's mother, Matron Mother Irryra.

Nadezdha had only seen her mother once in all her seventeen years (twice if one counted her birth). She had been hiding in an alcove near the soldier's quarters when she had looked up and seen the silent procession of the Matron and her courtiers as she went to inspect her troops. Nadezdha had thought her mother so beautiful then, so collected, so serene, and almost untouchable. It had been a child's thought, and Nadezdha, in her innocence, had not seen the burning ambition in her mother's eyes that so marred her apparent 'serenity'.

The child moved silently into the shadows, behind a pillar. She held tightly to her wrists, muffling the bells so that she would not be discovered. Even as she was settling in to watch the proceedings, her mother rose and began to speak.

"My family," she intoned, "Today is a proud day for our noble House! With the help of our Goddess, we have driven back our blasphemous enemies of House Akalabre and gained Her approval!"

The Matron paused here to allow general cheers and cries of 'Praise Lloth!'

She continued. "As you know, First House Qu'Yond has personally congratulated us and has promised us all of Akalabre's resources. This includes over 1000 slave soldiers," there was great cheering here, "200 drow soldiers," even greater cheering, "and six new priestesses!" The Chapel seemed to swell with jubilant cries.

Nadezdha, behind her pillar, was also thrilled with the infectious enthusiasm of her kin. She did not understand exactly what had happened, but the feeling of pride seemed to fill her spirit too. She stood, rapt with attention, and listened to her mother's speech.

"We have left the obscurity that so previously restricted our House's growth. Soon, we will have more influence in the city and its guilds, our army is becoming ever more powerful and I am pleased to announce to you all, that as a sign of Lady Lloth's blessing upon myself and my house, I am pregnant with another daughter!"

As the deafening applause began to subside, Nadezdha began to slink away. She did not want to be caught in the Chapel by one of her sisters, especially since Zavdra had been ordained as a High Priestess, her sister had become much more zealous. She did not make it out of the chapel. But it was not the bells that betrayed her this time but the hood of her new cloak. As she was sneaking past the quieting crowd, the too-big hood slipped over her eyes at exactly the wrong the moment. Poor Nadezdha over stepped and stumbled into one of her cousins. When the older drow turned a baleful gaze upon her, Dez attempted to salvage the situation by bowing and backing away.

It was not to be. Her sister, Zavdra, having noticed a disturbance in the crowd, had come up behind her and gripped her shoulder tightly. Wincing, Nadezdha turned to face the priestess. She pulled back the hood and smiled weakly at her sister. Zavdra's eyes widened at-what to her was-audacity on Nadezdha's part. The priestess grabbed her arm and pulled the frightened, struggling child through the crowd towards the altar.

"Do you see this?" cried Zavdra to the assembled dark elves. She threw Nadezdha to the ground, and gestured theatrically at her. "It is _iblith_ like this that drag us down, who bring disapproval and Lloth's wrath upon us!"

Nadezdha was breathing heavily. She knew she was in trouble this time. She had never been beaten in front of a crowd, and she knew she was going to be beaten. Though what for, exactly, she wasn't sure. It must have had something to do with the _piwafwi_, though.

Frantically, the half-drow child turned an imploring gaze on her surrounding kinsmen. She encountered only cold stares and, in many cases, ridicule and scorn. One by one she looked at her cousins, her sisters and brothers. No help there. She was about to seek aid from her mother, when she stopped. Instinctively, in the logical part of her mind she knew that Matron Irryra cared nothing for her, and would not help her. But Nadezdha didn't want to ruin the image she had of her perfect, beautiful mother. She wanted to keep it, as a last broken hope. And so she did not look. She did not want to see the look of hatred in her mother's eyes.

Dantal was shaken. He didn't show it on his impassive face, but he was. When his sister had looked at him, her large eyes filled with silent pleading, it had felt like she had pierced his very soul. It was not a pleasant feeling for the weapon's master. He watched her, and saw the subtle change in her eyes and her expression changed from fear, to some sort of grim acceptance of fate. The child squared her shoulders and held her head high, understanding the futility of her place, but refusing to bow down. Dantal couldn't help but admire the sentiment, however foolish it seemed to him.

Zavdra strode over to the little half-drow and hauled her to her feet, by the back of the cloak. The front of the garment pulled tight against Nadezdha's throat and she choked, her little hands grasping at the pin holding it closed.

"How dare you wear this?" demanded the priestess, as Nadezdha struggled for breath, "what makes you think that a pathetic little half-breed like yourself is worthy of it?"

The hold on her was relinquished slightly so that she could breathe. Nadezdha coughed and managed to gasp out defiantly, "I was cold."

"Arrogant little witch!" Zavdra growled at her. She threw Nadezdha away once again, only this time, the child managed to keep her feet.

"I think," Nadezdha answered, her yellow eyes narrowing and a measure of pride making her bold, "that you have our roles reversed."

Off to the side, Yuezaz allowed himself a faint inward smile. This child was much more interesting then he first thought. He just hoped she would survive this encounter so that she could be of service to him.

Fythriel, youngest daughter of Irryra hoping to gain her mother's approval, stepped forward at her sister's blasphemous words, "Why you insolent whelp!"

Nadezdha whirled on the other girl, "Watch your tongue around your elders, younger sister!"

At this, the two brothers exchanged a look. Both were surprised at the little half-drow's boldness. They were worried too. If Nadezdha overstepped her already thin bounds it would spell her doom. If she survived, her first lesson would be one in using tact.

G'abre, storms of anger raging on her thin face, stalked into the clearing in front of the altar. She waved Zavdra and Fythriel away, keeping her icy expression fixed on Nadezdha. As she did so, the high priestess pulled her snake-headed whip from her belt. This action caused a slight widening of Nadezdha's eyes. She had felt the bite of those snake heads on many occasions, and just the sight of them made her panic return.

The half-drow chewed her lip nervously and kept her eyes locked on the hypnotic writhing of the snake whip. G'abre saw her little sister's fear and smiled wickedly.

"Ah, you remember my pets, do you? Your blasphemy angers them as well."

"Does it?"

Nadezdha unconsciously shifted her foot back a little. The movement caught G'abre's eye. When the priestess saw the boots on the child's feet, she raised a delicate, white eyebrow.

"Your list of sins grows ever longer, little sister. Even the Akalabre filth you stole those from was more worthy of such finery than you. These," she let one snake head brush it's fangs against the surface of the boot, "were made for drow, you, O faerie brat, are not permitted to wear them."

Nadezdha's temper flared, "I am as worthy as any drow! I am Matron Irryra's daughter!"

G'abre's crimson eyes narrowed. "Your presumptions will only bring you suffering!" She yelled this last word and brought her whip down in a punishing strike.

The half-drow child saw the arc of movement and tried to dodge to the side, but G'abre was too quick and two snake-heads bit into her shoulder. The force of the blow knocked Nadezdha to the floor and she rolled to the edge of the crowd. One drow, a cousin of some sort no doubt, kicked her back towards G'abre who stood gently caressing the heads of snake extensions that had bitten Nadezdha. In the moment of relative calm, Zavdra pushed past her elder sister.

"Let me handle this, dear G'abre," the wild-eyed priestess said.

G'abre raised her eyebrows in mild surprise, but stepped gracefully back to the sidelines. Her face was an impassive mask, it would have been impossible to know that mere minutes ago she had been burning with wrath.

"Now, little Nadezdha, I shall teach you the way of Lloth," said Zavdra sweetly, seconds before she snapped her whip at her half-sister.

But Nadezdha did something unexpected. Instead of taking the blow, as one of her station was supposed to, she rolled with it, keeping her torso two fingers' breadth away from the enchanted snapping heads. Zavdra, although surprised, quickly caught her balance and once again attacked her sister. This time, Nadezdha ducked and, acting on instinct, she drew her hidden knife, raised it. Never would her elder sister have imagined Nadezdha to have the nerve to carry a weapon, and so the priestess was not prepared for the counter-attack. Nadezdha managed to slice of two of the snake heads closest to her, and, slipping around Zavdra's arm, she slashed at her sister's face.

The exchange was over in but a few heartbeats. Nadezdha and her sister stood about four feet apart. Zavdra felt the cut on her cheek and stared, disbelievingly, both at the blood on her hand and the two limp extensions of her whip. Dez was panting, feeling the remnants of adrenaline and exhilaration flowing through her small system. The sensation disappeared in an instant, however, when she saw the shocked and livid expressions on the faces all around her.

_Oops, _she thought,

Unnoticed by their female relatives, Yuezaz and Dantal exchanged a knowing glance. She had talent, and hatred for her sisters. They would ensure her survival.

"You dare," Zavdra whispered dangerously, "you dare raise a weapon to a priestess?"

Terror replacing exhilaration, Nadezdha stuttered something unintelligible. She glanced at the bloodied knife in her hand and threw it away like some sort of dead animal. She backed away from her sister, then in a moment she would later describe as unforgivable weakness, she turned to her 'beautiful' mother and held out one hand.

"Mother, please! I…" Her plea was cut off by her ensuing shriek of pain, as the poisoned teeth of three snake whip heads pierced her flesh. She fell to her knees, the toxic substance already rushing through her bloodstream, making her weak and wracking her body with pain.

Even as more blows were rained on her unprotected back, Nadezdha reached out her hand to the impassive Matron Irryra, who watched her beating coldly, uncaring.

"Mother…" breathed Nadezdha.

One last betrayal. In truth, it had been the first and longest enduring.

Her three sisters, even Fythriel, pinned her down and pulled the enchanted boots from her feet. To punish her for stealing from a more worthy drow, Zavdra administered the bite of her whip to Nadezdha's bare feet as well.

The blows hurt, they were a hell for poor Nadezdha, but the crushing blow was the look on her mother's face. She watched the whole time, her eyes locked with her third-born daughter's. No pity, no love, no feeling. Even as consciousness slipped away from Nadezdha, she could still see the image of her mother-no longer beautiful to her-forever burned in her mind's eye, watching as she was beaten by her sisters.

A/N: Poor Nadezdha! My heart goes out to her, but I can't help her, that would be changing the story. Yeah, so I messed around with this chapter. Made a new character, changed some roles and numbers. I hope this makes Icy Mike Molson happy…and all you others who make writing this story worth it. I thank you all. Tell me what you think of my changes.

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	3. No Answer

A/N: This is a revamped version of the old third chapter. It's all shiny and new. I'm much happier with this version as it fits the characters so much better. To BlueNose, I assure you that Nadezdha is not a Drizzt clone. She's an innocent child now, but trust me by the end of the next chapter I think she'll be on her way to becoming a cold-blooded killer. To Icy Mike I hope you like this changed chapter. Let me know if you like it. And to everyone else that reviewed, thanks a bunch!

**No Answer**

Whether it was days or hours that she lay there, half-conscious before the altar, Nadezdha did not know. The passage of time had no importance as she struggled to breathe, dimly aware of the pain coursing through her body. The poison from the snake whips had affected her terribly. Her forehead burned with what seemed the fires of the Nine Hells, and her stomach heaved violently with nausea. Every time she managed to regain consciousness and open her eyes, the world would spin and seem to shake. Though in reality it was her own body's constant twitching that made this appear so.

Minor priestesses came and went, seeing to the chapel's more mundane, daily rituals. They ignored the limp form of the fallen child, working around her when necessary and kicking her out of their way when it suited them. By their estimation she would be dead soon anyway. They would let her die and then clean her away with the rest of the refuse to rot and be forgotten.

Awareness returned gradually to Nadezdha's senses. She felt the cold of the marble floor beneath her body. A faint trace of incense lingered in the air, and Nadezdha noticed that the constant unholy chanting that had haunted her fogged thoughts, even in dreams, had ceased. Their work done, the priestesses were gone…for the time being at any rate.

The terrible edge of her pain had been dulled slightly, and Nadezdha was able to move a little. Testing her damaged abilities, she made the colossal effort of rolling over onto her side. It didn't kill her. This small success was encouraging and she kept her eyes closed as she struggled courageously into a kneeling position.

Her eyes opened, glowing faintly yellow in the infrared spectrum, and the image of a spider with the face of a female drow swam into view. Lloth. The goddess of her people, of the drow. The only goddess Nadezdha had ever known.

Nadezdha knew only a little about Lloth, for she had been denied a female's inherent right (and obligation) to study the religion. She rarely went to the Chapel but was always awestruck at the majesty and opulence of the place. Compared to more influential houses in the city, Ssarash'i's chapel was, at best, second-rate and rundown, but Nadezdha did not know that. To her it was the pinnacle of achievement of her race. She felt that if so much beauty was created in the name of Lloth than there must be something wonderful about the deity she was not aware of.

So she prayed. She protected spiders and their webs with unwavering loyalty, in hopes that Lloth may favour her for her devotion. Most of the time she did not wish for very much; some more food, a blanket, a few less beatings. If she was feeling particularly bold she would ask for her deepest and most heartfelt wish; a place in drow society.

At every turn, Lloth ignored her.

Gradually, inexorably, Nadezdha's limited faith began to falter, and eventually she lost her hope altogether. The goddess of her mother's people cared nothing for a half-breed, it seemed. Nadezdha was keenly aware of her ignorance in matters of the drow but she was willful and did the best she could to learn. It was never enough. _She_ was never enough.

Nadezdha looked up at the smooth onyx sculpture and back down to her small grey hands. She leaned forward and placed her hand on the statue's foot. For a long time she stared at the contrast of the colour of her skin against the dark stone. When she finally moved away her handprint remained, a spot of warmth surrounded by cold. It glowed like a beacon in the infrared spectrum. It faded away quickly, leaving not a trace that it had ever been there. Lloth's statue seemed to drain all and any heat around it.

The face of the statue was impassive yet still retained a haughty quality to its features. The eyes held no pupils yet that made it seem all the more as though Lloth was gazing down mockingly at the injured child at her feet.

Nadezdha shivered and hugged herself for warmth. The Underdark was never cold, but under the stone gaze of the dark goddess it felt like a chill permeated the air.

"If I worship you," asked Nadezdha, her tone soft, "does that make me drow?"

There was, of course, no answer. Nadezdha felt a surge of anger go through her. Lloth was the source of all her suffering, the statue a beautiful sheath for a wicked sword. There was something about the goddess that Dez could sense but could not pinpoint...something wrong. It was the same something that was wrong in her own life. An element that shouldn't be there…

Without thinking, Nadezdha tried to rise and forsake the dark atmosphere of the Chapel. The pain in her beaten feet and legs made her head swim and she fell once more with a dull thud onto her side. She pulled her knees to her chest, her hands gripping each other so tightly that her knuckles turned white. Tears forced their way silently from her eyes and she wept. She cried from the pain, from despair, from her own helpless and unfocused anger.

Turning her tear-strewn face back to the sacred statue, the child tried to give voice to the raging emotions running through her system. She wanted to say that she hated the goddess; she wanted to scream her betrayal and her pain and fear. But she just couldn't. The words felt like poison in her mouth. Instead something quite different came from her lips:

"Why don't you ever answer?" she asked quietly.

"Because she never answers."

Nadezdha couldn't have been more surprised if the sun had suddenly risen underground. She knew that voice. At the sound of it she cautiously looked over her shoulder.

Before her eyes stood Dantal Ssarash'i, the Weapons Master of their house.

As soon as the child saw her elder brother, a thousand impulses and thoughts fought for dominance within her. Above all else she wanted to run. The fear she lived with constantly was telling her that she would be beaten for meeting his eyes. A vaguely more rational part of her mind was shrieking at her to bow. If she did so there would be a higher chance of her surviving this encounter.

And somewhere, an often buried section of her consciousness wanted to ask him what he'd meant.

All of this inner turmoil took place in a mere matter of heartbeats. Seconds later Nadezdha settled on her knee-jerk reaction of bowing and lowering her eyes to the floor. It was her standard procedure, whenever she encountered one of her siblings, to try to make herself seem as respectful and small as possible. However, this time she stopped herself short of groveling. There was something about what he had said that left his words hanging expectantly in the air between them. Carefully, with an almost agonizing slowness, she raised her head. When no punishing strikes were forthcoming she gained a measure of confidence and allowed her eyes to meet those of her brother.

Family means very little to the drow. Sometimes family is a tool (most often a ladder) and if not they are an obstacle. House Ssarash'i was no different from the norm. Matron Irryra felt no bond with her children and they certainly felt nothing for her besides grudging respect and bitter loathing. When it came to each other the basic policy was avoidance. Brothers feared the sisters and the sisters only used their brothers to practice their whipping coordination. The family was just another hierarchy in the tangle of drow class systems.

However, as Dantal and Nadezdha met each other's gaze they did feel something. It was a tiny connection, one shared by all that have suffered but know there is no sympathy to be had. It was not affection or trust; nothing so strong as that. It was understanding. Even though he was a male drow fighter and she was nothing more than a wounded half breed kneeling at his feet, deep down they were on equal footing.

Breaking the spell, Nadezdha asked, "What did you mean?"

Dantal cocked his head to one side. Had he not been a jaded, manipulative and black-hearted scoundrel, it would have given him an almost innocent appearance.

"Hmm?"

Nadezdha faltered for a moment, but pressed on. "About…about Lloth. What did you mean?"

Her brother smiled faintly. "Never mind that for now," he said. He cast an appraising eye over her. "Can you stand?"

The little half drow felt awkward kneeling before the Weapons Master. She knew that his question was not the sort of thing someone of his stature was supposed to ask her. Her tongue felt thick in her mouth as she tried to answer him.

"I don't know," she answered lamely.

"Have you tried?"

Nadezdha shook her head.

"Then do so."

Dantal had a compelling voice and Nadezdha felt that she had a sudden need to prove herself to him, to show him that she was worth his attention. No doubt she would never have this kind of opportunity again and if she lost it now…Well, she didn't want to even consider that. The halls of her house were cold enough without losing her hope as well.

. Struggling against her abused body's pangs of protest, Nadezdha managed to get one foot planted on the floor. Her arms pushed against the tiles and for a moment she managed to half stand-only to run out of strength and collapse once again. Her torn feet-lacerated badly from her punishment-simply would not support her weight. Nadezdha bit her lip and tried to blink back the tears of shame and frustration welling up in her eyes.

She had failed.

"I can't," she whispered.

To her surprise he didn't turn his back on her. Instead, he knelt down on one knee in front before her and lifted her chin gently with one finger. Shocked by his kind treatment, Nadezdha stared at him in bewilderment. Dantal smiled and sat down beside her with his back leaning against a pillar. Her shame momentarily forgotten, his sister crawled closer. She sat, hugging her small frame for warmth, and waited with rapt attention for Dantal to speak.

He leaned forward, his gaze intense as though he was imparting a great secret to her.

"What do you dream of, Nadezdha?" he asked.

Perplexed, Nadezdha quirked an eyebrow. She was losing her fear somewhat, but she was still keeping a careful guard up. Dantal's question was something she had never encountered, let alone thought of herself.

"What should I dream of?" she asked cautiously.

Dantal laughed, a lively sound that echoed throughout the dusty chapel. "An excellent answer," he said with a grin, "one worthy of any drow. But don't worry, Little Sister, there is no right or wrong answer, I am merely curious."

Nadezdha may have been somewhat naïve, but she was not stupid. She knew that her brother was lying, there was a right answer. She could tell by the way he studied her gaze and the shrewd look in his own eyes.

"I suppose," She began slowly, "I dream of a place within the family…I want a purpose."

Dantal leaned even farther forward, the gleam of promise in his eyes the only light in the chapel. "What if I could give you that purpose?"

It took Nadezdha a moment or two to digest what her brother had said.

"What would I have to do?" she asked at length.

"What we teach you."

Nadezdha paused. "And what would you teach me?"

Once again her brother tilted his head innocently. "What would you like to learn?"

Nadezdha thought about this carefully. She glanced at the coldly proud statues, to Dantal's face and finally at her wounds, thin deep cuts born from the whip.

At last she raised her eyes back to her brother's gaze. A grin of her own was starting to spread slowly across her face.

"How to stand without falling," she replied.

"Ah," said Dantal knowingly, "so you wish to learn how to survive."

"Not just that," Nadezdha replied quickly. "I want to learn how to live."

The Weapons Master nodded sagely. "I believe I can teach you that. I shall show you how to avoid the strikes of your enemies, and," now he too glanced at the statues, "perhaps even how to strike back."

The eyes of the little half drow were wide indeed. In all her life, no one had ever offered her anything like this. She'd never even dreamed of this sort of opportunity. "You would teach me that?"

Dantal nodded. "If you are willing to learn, of course."

Nadezdha's expression changed from awe to serious and with her voice filled with sincerity, she solemnly replied, "I would learn everything and anything you taught me."

It was then that Dantal noticed that there was a certain intensity that seemed to surround Nadezdha, like sparks from a fire. She meant every thing she said. Every action she made had some sort of deeper meaning. Her statement had an element to it that was more than words; it burned with emotion, with unpledged loyalty.

"Good," he said at last. "Then come with me."

The weapons master turned away then, his practiced steps making no sound on the stone floor. Nadezdha struggled to rise and follow him, but before she could take one stride forward, her body failed her. With a cry, she fell to her knees. In a heartbeat, she renewed her efforts, determined not to fail again.

It was so unexpected, that at first Nadezdha did not even notice her brother's outstretched hand. He was standing in front of her again, with his head tilted to one side and an almost self-mocking smirk on his face.

"I will do this just once," he said to her, "I will not do it again."

Nadezdha grinned widely. "I would not expect you to." As she took hold of his hand she added, "Brother." It sounded right.

She clung to his arm tightly as they walked, flinching every now and then from the pain in her feet, but keeping her pace steady and even. She felt stronger now. Now that she had support, she felt she could endure all the pain in the world.


	4. Easy Smiles

_Echoes_

_I remember how easily her smile used to come to her, back in those early days. _

_No matter what we gave her, no matter what we taught, every morsel of food, every crumb of knowledge was treated like all the blessings and riches of Lloth. She was happier in the first years of her training than she'd ever been and no doubt happier than she'll ever be again. _

_It is a strange thing to see a drow child smiling, even a half drow. Drow children's faces are always blank slates. Untouched. They are taught from the youngest age possible that they should never show their feelings openly. Tears, laughter, smiles, they allow far too much insight into your character and are signs of weakness. This weakness could spell downfall._

_Yuezaz and I tried to make up for the lessons she lacked. She was a quick learner with almost everything; reading, writing, fighting techniques, basic magic etc. Everything but the business of her emotions. She was so open with us, so completely and utterly trusting. In a way, we realized, it was a boon; we always knew what she was thinking, how she felt towards us. She let us in more back then, into her mind. I often wonder if she understood her actions, or ours. She was never stupid, and she isn't now. She must have known._

_Yet she loves us, even now. It is the weakness of her father's blood in her veins, paling her, letting us see her for what she is. What she feels. She lives for our approval, for us to return her smiles. A beaten dog begging for bones._

_For all accounts and purposes, it would appear our experiment went well. She is fast, stealthy, cunning, precise, loyal and above all, obedient. And yet…Something has changed. Day by day, little by little, she stopped smiling. Her face became blank, at first, then a mirror, reflecting only what we wanted to see._

_I didn't realize it at the time, but the trouble began when she started asking questions._

_--From the log of Dantal Ssarash'i._

**Easy Smiles**

"Brother, what does it mean to be drow?"

Yuezaz paused in his grinding of herbs and glanced with a furrowed brow at his little sister. Nadezdha, too, had also taken a break from mixing the healing potion that he was teaching her and was looking up at him expectantly. The mage frowned and returned to his work.

"That is a question with many answers," he replied shortly. "And this is neither the time nor the place to discuss any of them."

Nadezdha looked deeply disappointed. "But this is the only time I have to talk to you, Brother! I only see you during lessons. I want to know what you think."

"What I think?" Yuezaz allowed himself a quick half snort. With practiced ease, his hands continued working independently on mixing as he turned his head to speak to Nadezdha.

"I will tell you this much, girl: To be drow is to never know what anyone is thinking." He paused thoughtfully for a moment.

"You can only guess," he added as an afterthought.

Before his little sister could question his meaning, the mage interrupted her.

"Are you finished with that yet, girl?"

Girl. He always called her that. To him, Nadezdha had no name, no connection to him. He treated her like a lump of clay; something to be shaped, a challenge to be proud of if it turned out well, but not something to name or talk to, except to teach. It had only been a month since Nadezdha had started taking lessons from her brothers, but already she was desperate to hear Yuezaz call her by name. If only as a sign that he approved of her.

She glanced at the contents of her mortar and pestle, gave it an extra grind for good measure and nodded.

"Then add it to the rest of the mixture and stir it. When you're done, I'll let you know if it's passable."

After that, Nadezdha did as she was told while her older brother studied his texts. The two worked in silence for the rest of the day.

--

Irryra Ssarash'i, like all Matron Mothers, fancied herself a queen. However, although she was as beautiful and cunning as any daughter of First House Qu'Yond, her house was only a pale shadow of the city's royal family. Her private chambers best of all reflected her dreams and the contrary nature of her status. Trappings of faded opulence, stolen from the ruins of fallen noble houses, were scattered at random throughout the rooms. The lack of extra furniture and the bare patches on the walls that revealed the damage born of age acted as silent reminders of Ssarash'i's absence of luxuries and its stagnated progress.

Matron Irryra was not a queen. She was an underdog and she knew it.

But power can be gained in more ways than simple finances or strength of arms. It can also be seized with information, a highly valued prize in a city of secrets. And Irryra Ssarash'i had more than her share of secrets. She was well aware of their worth. She was also aware of ways to attain them.

Vuze Ssarash'i was getting increasingly twitchy. He was a lowly pageboy and was supposed to keep perfectly still and quiet whenever around his superiors. Unfortunately, he was very young and was not naturally demure as his post dictated he should be. He had been kneeling at his mother's feet for well over an hour, waiting for the Matron Mother to address them. He was beginning to fidget nervously.

His mother, G'abre Ssarash'i, appeared deceptively patient and calm, although her mind boiled with dark angry thoughts. Her mother was playing power games with her again. It was a common and irritating occurrence. Matron Irryra never tired of reminding her oldest daughter of her place. The heir of House Ssarash'i comforted herself with the thought that her mother played these games because she felt that G'abre was a threat.

At last, Matron Irryra emerged from her bedchamber. As was required of him, Vuze bowed forward until his forehead was mere inches above the floor. G'abre made no change in her expression to indicate impatience or annoyance with her mother. She merely nodded in acknowledgement.

The Matron Mother smiled, almost welcomingly, but said nothing. It was another power game of hers, forcing G'abre to volunteer information.

G'abre was quickly tiring of the games.

"You summoned me?" She made no reference to her son, of course. He was considered her property. There was no need to address him.

"That I did," replied Matron Irryra, abandoning her game in the face of business. "It's about the half-breed."

"She's alive," said G'abre bluntly, wishing to finish their meeting as quickly as possible.

Her mother nodded, making no hint as to whether this information was a good or a bad thing.

"My son knows where she is," G'abre continued. "Vuze!"

Vuze's head jerked as he fought against his instinct to look up. Fear of the whip kept his eyes fixed to the floor, though, as he recounted what he knew. His voice was shaky as he spoke to the Matron Mother.

"I was in the temple when I saw it, O Matron Mother. I was cleaning the floor in one of the alcoves when I heard voices coming from near the altar, a male's and a girl-child's. So I stayed still and listened-"

His mother gave him a sharp kick. "Get to the point, boy."

Vuze gulped. "It's Dantal, Matron! I mean," he said, remembering his place, "it's the Weapons Master. Him and the House Mage. They're going to train the half-breed. I don't know what for."

The boy flinched in case he received another kick. Instead, the Matron said, "Very good, boy. You're dismissed."

Deeply relieved, Vuze sprang to his feet and bowed every step of the way out the door.

As soon as the page left the room, G'abre turned to her mother and asked, "The Vhaeraunites?"

Irryra nodded and took a slow sip of deepwine. "No doubt they consulted their leaders, or they wouldn't have bothered with her," she said at length after she'd swallowed.

"What use would a group of ragtag rebel males have with a starved half-faerie brat?"

"Sympathy?' Matron Irryra joked. Both females snickered at the idea.

Irryra's tone quickly returned to seriousness. "It isn't only a ragtag group of males now."

G'abre did what she could to hide her shock. "Priestesses?"

"Not yet, thank Lloth. Female commoners," the matron clarified, "disenfranchised with the clergy, you see."

G'abre shook her head in disbelief. "Tsk, what is the world coming to?"

The younger female didn't bother asking her mother how she knew about the new recruits to the Vhaeraunite group. Like any proper drow, Irryra never gave any straight answers.

The two didn't speak for a moment, both lost in thought. G'abre knew that often the important information exchanged during these meetings couldn't be found in what was said, but in the words that weren't said. She thought idly to a drow saying, rarely used but widely known; Never befriend the oppressed unless you mean to destroy the oppressors. Obviously her heretic brothers were playing at that little game, but how were they going to go about it?

Bored and frustrated, G'abre broke the silence. "Your orders, Matron?"

"Increase surveillance on your brothers. Know their affairs but do not interfere in them. Especially those regarding the girl. I'm curious as to how this will play out." She paused, taking another sip. "Keep me informed, I'll give additional orders later. No matter what happens, make sure the half-breed survives."

G'abre nodded, understanding that she had been dismissed. She stood and bowed slightly before leaving her mother's chambers. As she walked through the halls of her still-recovering house, she was already pondering the implications of her mother's orders.

What was the importance of the brat?

--

Nadezdha was a small, banty thing. Years of malnutrition and abuse had stunted her growth and left her physically weakened. Her brothers found ways to work around her shortcomings. She was not trained to be fighter, but instead for skills more suited to her small frame and quick mind; such as stealth, agility, and resourcefulness.

They took care of her well enough. Their treatment of her was kinder than she had ever experienced. She had a bed, a cot of sorts in one of the small spare rooms in Dantal's quarters, three whole meals a day and her time was filled with lessons on everything she had ever wished to learn.

With time she gained weight and energy and became almost as happy as any surface-born child. However, her weak health impeded her ability to heal quickly, and in the first month or so of her new living arrangements she was prone to sickness. To ensure their investment in their little sister, Dantal and Yuezaz arranged for a healer to attend to Nadezdha twice a week. They could not afford the risk of bringing in a drow healer, who would no doubt sell their information to the highest bidder. So they settled for the next best thing. A slave.

Solque didn't know whether to dread or anticipate her sessions with the drow child. She certainly didn't know what to make of them. Every few nights (or days, she was never sure), she was dragged from the piece of hell her captors called the slave barracks, blindfolded and brought through a series of tunnels to a small plain room within the house.

The first time it had happened she had fought. She had thought that they were going to kill her as they had her father, either as an example of their cruelty or as a sacrifice. She had screamed and kicked at them, forcing her 'escorts' to tie her feet and gag her as well as blindfold her. How surprised she had been when, instead of meeting the end of sacrificial knife, she had been met with a sullen, nobly-dressed male drow who had ordered her, in limited Elvish, to heal the wounds of a little ash-skinned girl dressed in boy's clothes. It had all been so bizarre that Solque had simply done as she was told and later, when it was over, attributed the whole situation to her troubled dreams.

Yet, only two sleeps later, it happened again, and again after that. By the third time, Solque began to comply more easily. She almost looked forward to the reprieve from her now painful existence. The little girl was strange, different from the other drow. There was something about her friendly smile that Solque found almost reminiscent of her brothers and sisters on the surface. The memories of her former life were painful, but the elf clung to them desperately. She needed them. She pretended that Nadezdha was her sister and that she could see dawn in the candlelight.

So it went on, with the elven slave attending regularly to the whip marks, so similar to her own, on the half-drow child's legs and feet.

Nadezdha would always watch the elf carefully. She was curious, but also patient. All she knew of the surface elves were the usual indoctrinations of hatred that were woven into every drow child's heart from birth. Her sisters had been very careful to teach her those, especially seeing as she bore faerie blood. She desperately wanted to know more, but she was patient and she waited until she had memorized all of the elf's features, movements and quiet mannerisms before she asked any questions.

That time had come.

"What's your name?" she asked.

Solque looked up in shock at her charge. Her eyes were wide and shone green in the low light of the candle that Dantal had lit (for the benefit of her work). Nadezdha took note of the light flecks of blue hidden in the green, a shade she had never seen in any drow eyes. The slave stayed frozen momentarily, in the middle of wrapping Nadezdha's new bandages. Seconds later, she ducked her head down and returned to her work.

Nadezdha was nothing if not persistent. Once she had asked her question, she would not let it drop. She waited only a few heartbeats before she tried asking the elf's name again. The second time, the healer hesitated then raised her head slowly, fear and incomprehension in her eyes. Realizing the problem, Nadezdha tried a different approach.

"Nadezdha," said the child, pointing to herself. She pointed to the slave. "You?"

Understanding flashed across the elf's face, quickly replaced with apprehension. Her eyes flicked towards to the males across the room. Nadezdha followed her gaze. Her brother Dantal was playing a game of _Sava_ against another male whose name Nadezdha didn't know. He was a commander of something and Nadezdha trusted him because her brothers told her she should. The two were otherwise distracted and would only cast an occasional cursory glance in females' direction.

Solque was unsure of what she should do. She'd been asked a question and she couldn't very well defy her young mistress by not answering. She had seen what happened to slaves that did so. In all honesty, she wanted to tell Nadezdha her name, just to forge even the most tenuous of links with the child. The Underdark was harsh and lonely place, and Solque could feel herself going mad from isolation. Still, the drow were cruel and loved tricks. The child's question might be a trap. On the other hand…

Solque glanced quickly at her male captors. Assured that they weren't looking she replied as softly as she could.

"Solque."

"Solque," Nadezdha repeated slowly, her drow accent making the name sound strange. "I'll remember that," she said with a smile, patting the elf on the cheek.

Long after Solque had finished her work and had been dumped unceremoniously back on her pallet in the barracks she thought back to her brief exchange with the drow-child. She put a hand to her cheek, where the girl had touched her. The action had been intended to be kind, but there had still been an undercurrent of condescension. The elf sighed and pulled her knees up to her chest for warmth.

Nadezdha treated Solque as if she were the younger of the two. Even though she was a child, she already knew that the elf was subservient to her. No matter their link, they would never be equals.

--

Before her brothers took her in, a time that was already fading from Nadezdha's memory, she had been a fitful sleeper. She had always chosen sleep over Reverie, as she never had any desire to relive in dreams the events of her days. Still, she slept lightly, out of necessity. She could never stay in one spot for too long, even to rest. She would move around the house every two hours or so, exhausted or not. It had to be done to avoid being found.

The habit was carried over into her move into Dantal's quarters. Often the weapons master would find the small child curled up against the wall across from her cot, bare and shivering on the cold stone floor. Once, maybe twice, he picked her up and returned her to her bed, but she never found out and he most certainly didn't tell her.

Over time, and with the help of Solque's ministrations, Nadezdha's sleep became sounder. Her limp disappeared, she put on a bit of weight and her hair took on a shining shade of white, although her skin stayed as grey as ever. That couldn't be helped of course, thought Dantal, it was the misfortune of her heritage. Still, she almost looked like a drow.

The dark elves didn't really have a night or day to speak of, as there was no substantial way to measure time in the Underdark. The city was always buzzing with activity. However, whether it was an unspoken agreement between the commoners or a residual unconscious nostalgia for the ways of the surface there were definite peaks and lulls in activity when the majority of citizens were awake or resting. These times served roughly as night and day, with priestesses and wizards measuring the hours more accurately.

To avoid suspicion as best they could, Dantal and Yuezaz conducted Nadezdha's lessons at night, alternating randomly so as not to create a pattern of behaviour. During the day, Nadezdha rested, studied or meditated.

As soon as Dantal returned from his duties and came to visit Nadezdha, she would leap up from her cot, bow to him and, with a wide smile, ask;

"What would you have me do?"

The length of Nadezdha's lessons varied tremendously from night to night, but they were always highly intensive and disciplined. From the moment they began, her abilities were improved, challenged and tested again and again. Nadezdha didn't mind. She enjoyed it all. It made her feel important. She did everything she was told with speed and alacrity.

During the last half hour or so of their time together, the weapons master and his sister would sit down and have a conversation entirely in the drow hand code, to practice Nadezdha's skills with the silent language.

Five months had passed since the half-drow had been unofficially adopted by her brothers. Solque had long since stopped coming, although Nadezdha still thought of her from time to time. She still had questions. Questions that her brothers could not answer.

But there were still some they could answer.

She would also sit close to Dantal, partly so that she could see his hands more clearly but also because she felt safer when she was near him. His presence was strong and reassuring. As she watched his hands and her own as they talked silently, she compared them mentally. His were larger than hers, and roughened from decades of training and an endless succession of battles. They were also a deep black, so dark that they seemed to absorb all light. Her own seemed so much brighter and conspicuous in comparison. Nadezdha was uncomfortable whenever she left the safe confines of her brother's rooms. She felt that her skin was a beacon, declaring her presence to all of the Underdark.

_What's wrong?_ asked Dantal, noticing that his sister wasn't paying attention.

Nadezdha hesitated. Her thoughts drifted to the question she had asked of Yuezaz months ago.

Her fingers stumbled only a little as they formed her words. _What does it mean to be drow?_

Dantal's response came smoothly and quickly. _To be drow is to be proud of what has been done, and to always strive to do better._

A pause. Then, before she could stop herself, Nadezdha asked what she truly desired to know.

_What of me?_

Dantal smirked slightly as he mulled over Nadezdha's question. _Blood does not a drow make. _He winked at his sister's puzzled expression._ Being drow is a way of thinking, not simply an accident of birth. One has to choose to abide by the laws and great traditions of the drow people. One has to wish to be drow, without that desire we are nothing but black-skinned elves. Being drow is a choice, and not everyone in this city has chosen it._

_I choose it, _said Nadezdha.

_I'm glad to hear it, _said Dantal, laying a hand on her shoulder. _You will make a fine drow. _

It became almost a game with them after that. Every midnight, before Nadezdha went to bed, she would ask her brothers 'what does it mean to be drow?'. And when she did, they would answer'to be proud'. Although from time to time they would answer differently. And so the days and nights passed, beginning with direction and ending with questions.

A/N: To those who have reviewed this storyso far I thank you very much for your praise and criticism, especially to Icy Mike Molson, who, by forcing me to defend it, has made it that much stronger. Hopefully the next update will be faster, as I actually know what I want todo with it. Until then, I wish you well.


	5. Weaving Webs

A/N: Here it is at last, Chapter 5, full of intrigue-y goodness and trauma that only the drow can manage. Sorry it took so long! Enjoy! Don't forget to let me know what you think.

Disclaimer: I don't own Forgotten Realms, or the drow pantheon. I do, however, own all the characters in this story. Steal them and you will be devoured by my secret squad of attack-goats.You have been warned.

---

**Weaving Webs**

Every city, whether drow, human or even dwarven, has its nobles. Nobles are, of course, the ruling class, the rich and influential. But the strength of their power is nothing without its foundation. A foundation built on the backs of the common workers. The proletariat. The silent majority. The city of Maeralyn was no different from all the others.

The population of Maeralyn was divided primarily by the mighty underground river Maevyr, for which the city was named. The nobles lived in their fortified castles on one side of the river, and the commoners eked out a living on the other side. Life was quite different for the drow peasants when compared to their rich superiors. Infighting was kept to a minimum to keep business in the Market flowing as smoothly as possible. Merchant families were the best-off, although times were tough even for them due to the overall battered economy of the city. They were also the most prone to the back-stabbing tactics of the clergy, as they were, like all nouveau riche, the ones who most fancied themselves self-made nobles.

For the rest of the dark elves, the best they could hope for was either scraping up enough training to join a House army or, failing that, to learn a trade and spend the rest of their lives in a state of relatively secure tedium. It wasn't that bad, though. The worst of the work was done by the city's slaves, and Lloth's scrutiny was not as focused on the less prominent members of her chosen people. There was always the freedom of the ever-energetic Market to escape to.

The Market was the beating heart of the city. It was a large half-circle of space next to the river filled with stalls, taverns, inns, pavilions and bustling crowds at all times of the day. It was the people's main source of entertainment, as well as other more substantial commodities.

Artists and performers flocked to the Market, always hoping to earn a few coppers for their talents. They could be found on every available corner, and had a strict, hidden hierarchy. The most talented and experienced were granted the privilege of first priority to perform in the Plaza; one of Maeralyn's most prestigious entertainment pavilions. These always generated the greatest revenue, and the most profitable hours were reserved for the professional dancers, singers and theatre troupes. If there was time to spare, the stage could be rented by more minor performers such as jugglers, musicians and conjurors who didn't have quite enough skill to be trained as mages. Everyone else had to settle for what they could earn on the streets, at least until they gained more influence in the Market, which was like a noble house all on its own.

Surrounding the area of the Plaza were legions of artisans, hawking their wares to any drow that would give them a second glance, or even a first.

This is where an unobtrusive male commoner named Phyx sat, stick of charcoal in hand, appealing to the innate narcissistic nature of the drow by drawing portraits for self-important merchants.

His subject, Qia Faeyett, sat across from him on the stool he had provided for her. She was posing with one hip out, her head held high and was pouting prettily, trying to catch more than just Phyx's artistic attention. Amused by his own little game, he pretended to ignore her attempts, knowing that females of her status always appreciated a bit of sport. They liked their males to be coy, and would often pay Phyx a little more than he was owed for playing along.

"My dear Phyx," said Qia, "perhaps sometime you might like to work on this portrait in the comfort of my home."

Phyx's eyes flicked past his canvas briefly. The merchant was still posing, but she had leaned her head forward a fraction and lowered her eyelids seductively.

A smile played over the artist's lips.

"Oh?" he said, "How kind of you to invite me, my lady."

Qia's voice was soft and husky. "I'm sure it would be a far more…appropriate setting."

"Would it now?" Phyx studied the burning look in the female's eyes and began copying it onto the parchment. Qia would no doubt appreciate the personal touch. In more ways than one, apparently.

The merchant was subtly but steadily leaning closer and closer to him. She was about to say something, when she was suddenly interrupted by the sounds of a commotion rippling through the Market. Both she and Phyx turned to find the source of the noise, hands instinctively reaching for hidden weapons.

Both the artists and patrons of the Market were hurriedly clearing a path, moving as though poisonous snakes were snapping at their heels. It was not a common occurrence for the nobility to visit the artisan's quarter. The Market was seen as a refuge for the commoners of Maeralyn, and as such the clergy scorned it as being crass and vulgar or, in extreme cases, even subversive. Of course, any noble with a fragment of common sense and a survival instinct frequented the Market: It was a hive of information, intrigue and pleasure. It served as both an escape and a mine of resources necessary for those who thrived on chaos. However, the nobility did not normally announce their presence, preferring anonymity to conduct whatever business, usually shady, they wished to engage in. They were rarely so bold as to march in with an honour guard in tow.

There was only one family who would be so bold…

Phyx and Qia were standing now. Their muscles were tensed with suspicion and fear, for they were certain they knew what was coming.

There was no drift-disk.

Above the heads of the marching soldiers the air was clear. Phyx relaxed a fraction, although his merchant patron remained on edge. No matron mother, full of religious fury, was here to make an example of some outspoken artist, but that did not mean that there might not be trouble.

At last, the dancers and musicians in their area gathered up their coins and instruments and fled to a safe distance, clearing the field of view and allowing Phyx to see the noble intruder. When he saw who it was, he almost grinned. Instead, he sheathed his knife (carefully secreted in the folds of his cloak) and sat down, signing to Qia that it would be best if she did the same. She did so but, Phyx noticed, she kept one hand on the handle of her dirk.

Phyx knew the visitor very well. She was tall and beautiful and held an aura of unmistakable power. She didn't walk in the marketplace; she _flowed_ around and through it, like an underground stream. She was sensual, smooth and so fluid in her movements one could pour her down a staircase. With the smallest of gestures she bade her guards to stop, and with a playful deliberateness she perused the wares of the nervous craftsmen in her vicinity, carefully keeping her eyes from meeting those of Phyx until she was actually standing in front of his stall.

She cleared her throat softly. "Master Phyx," she drew out the single syllable of his name; tasting it, savoring it. "What a pleasure to see you again."

Phyx rose to his feet and bowed low. Qia did the same, although with palpable reluctance. Merchants _hated_ the noble class. The feeling was mutual.

"Well met, my lady Satua," he replied. "To what do I owe this honour?"

"Business," his visitor said with a half-smile. "I hope that I'm not interrupting anything."

"Nothing at all, my lady."

Phyx's eyes flicked to Qia. The merchant knew her cue. She hesitated for a heartbeat, then disappeared through the stall's battered curtains. She would come back. Her kind always did.

"How may I be of service?"

Satua Qu'Yond, fifth daughter of First House Qu'Yond and Chief Magistrate over the Halls of Justice, sat down gracefully on the stool. Outside, normality slowly sputtered to life again while four of Qu'Yond's elite guards took up position at the entrance to Phyx's stall.

She did not answer him at first. Instead, she perused the samples of his work that were haphazardly affixed to the makeshift walls of his stall. Her fingers brushed softly over the lines of the sketches, almost lovingly. Looking up at Phyx she smiled at him.

"You have such a wonderful style," she said, looking back to his work. "All these lines around the edges, swirling and tangling…and then in the centre they meet to create a face." She looked up again with a conspiratorial smile. "A form out of chaos."

Phyx bowed his head deferentially. "You are too kind to me, my lady."

Satua rose and moved towards him. Phyx sank smoothly to his knees before her. The priestess laid a cool hand on his cheek, the bangles on her wrist clinking softly as she did so. Meeting Satua's eyes, Phyx placed his own hand over hers. He gently pulled her hand to his lips and reverently kissed the inside of her wrist, right over her pulse. For a moment the drow noblewoman closed her eyes in pleasure at the intimate gesture and breathed in deeply, almost sighing.

She leaned towards Phyx and her long white hair fell around him in curtains, shutting out the rest of the world. There were tiny gems plaited into her tresses, he noticed, enough to pay for almost a year's lodging in his neighbourhood. Satua smiled at him, her red eyes like glowing embers, and he wondered if she was going to kiss him. Her face was so very close to his, and no one could see them here…

With a sly look in her ruby red eyes, Satua stepped back gracefully. She moved past Phyx with the slightest _swish_ of her robes, her fingertips lightly brushing his cheek. Involuntarily, Phyx leaned towards her touch for a fraction of a second. He knew the subtle touch for what it was; a teasing promise. There would be kisses later, but under _her_ terms. Inwardly, Phyx allowed himself a wry smile. Satua reveled in these sorts of games.

"I have need of your talents, Master Phyx," she said casually.

Immediately the artisan became serious, though he kept his face carefully neutral. This was business, and if he was not mistaken, he knew exactly what kind.

"How may I serve you?"

"I wish to commission a portrait for a very dear friend of mine," said the priestess with an icy smile. "As a congratulatory gift, you see."

"Ah," replied Phyx, understanding immediately, "And who is this honoured friend?"

"Mistress Mindiira."

It was a well-known fact among commoners that having a working knowledge of all political players in the city, major and minor, proved to be a very strong advantage in business. Phyx's knowledge was far superior to most. He had an entire mental catalogue of Maeralyn's nobles, the bourgeoisie and the few commoners that had managed to rise to a position of social standing in his head. As such he knew very well who Mistress Mindiira Isryn was.

Isryn was a house of middle standing, and it was slowly but steadily rising through the ranks of the nobility. Matron Isryn had many daughters and all of them, especially Mindiira, were extremely ambitious. After she had completed her clerical studies, Mindiira had started working in the Halls of Justice, under Satua's tutelage, and she had recently been made a novice magistrate in property court. It was no secret that she had her sights aimed much higher.

This was all common knowledge, but Phyx knew that it paid to know that little bit extra. He knew that House Isryn had begun to slip from Lloth's favour and that Mindiira had been overheard critiquing Matron Qu'Yond's laws with certain individuals under suspicion of heresy…

"Where shall I have her portrait delivered?"

"She has an office to herself in the Hall's library. She spends much of her time in there, poring over old laws. Deliver it there, before the opening of Court. I shall ensure that nothing bars your way."

"Thank you, my lady," said Phyx with a small bow. "Do you wish to remain anonymous?"

Satua paused. A slow smile pulled at her lips, adding a dark cast to her red eyes, shading them the colour of blood.

"No," she said thoughtfully, "give her my fondest regards."

"Do you think she will expect this gift?"

"Regrettably, I do not think so," said Satua, sweet poison lacing her words, "But she should."

From somewhere in the folds of her silken robes, the priestess deftly pulled out a small leather pouch and a thin silver ring, bearing the seal of the High Court. She pressed the pouch into Phyx's hand.

"You will receive the rest of your payment when the deed is done. And this," she held up the ring, "will grant you access to the Halls. Show it to whoever would presume to stop you and they will trouble you no further."

Phyx slipped the ring onto his left hand. "I shall not disappoint, my lady."

"I know," said Satua, brushing a lock of hair from his eyes. "You never do."

And, with the faintest rustle of silk, she was gone. Phyx took the ring from his finger and perused it absently, his mind elsewhere. After a moment, he slipped the ring into a hidden pocket and strode to the curtain flap of his stall.

"Y'entan!" he called.

Almost immediately, a small and somewhat bedraggled drow boy scurried into view. He bowed awkwardly, in what could have been called a very poor attempt to emulate the pleasantries of the nobility.

"Yes, Master Phyx?"

"Fetch Master Shath," replied Phyx, his hand resting over the ring's hiding place. "We have business to discuss."

---

"Nadezdha, come here."

Engaged in target practice, the half-drow girl nonetheless jumped obediently to attention at the sound of her brother's voice. She laid her crossbow down carefully and scampered over to Dantal, stopping just a few paces from where he sat.

"How old are you now, Nadezdha?" he asked.

She paused. "Almost eighteen now, Master Dantal."

So young, thought the weapons master, almost against his own volition. So young, so fragile. He could practically see every bone, every blood vessel beneath her grey skin. There was something about the child that gave her a transparent quality. Perhaps that was part of how she protected herself from her sisters. Perhaps she had wished so hard to be invisible that it had almost come true.

He was reminded of a time when he'd been younger and still required to study basic magic under his older brother. Yuezaz had begrudgingly allowed Dantal to observe him in some of his work. For one of the spells, Yuezaz had required the sacrifice of a rare surface bird. Dantal could remember that bird vividly. How its plumage shone in the candlelight, the sharpness of its claws, the angry, mournful sounds that it made, how furiously it had beaten its wings against its captors when they removed it from its cage. He remembered how those wings had strained upwards, towards a sky buried under stone and shadows. He remembered how easily those wings had been broken, the bones snapping as though they were no more substantial than a breath, or a wish.

As Dantal stared at his little sister, he could see that bird reflected in her. Her yellow eyes were the same colour, her small frame just as delicate, and she had claws, though she kept hers hidden. Seeing all this, a strange realization came to Dantal: If I asked this girl to beat her arms and try to fly, she would do it. If I ask her to kill, she will do it. If I ask her to believe me, she will. And with that thought came another, quite unbidden and most unsettling.

_What will it take to break you, little bird?_

He shook the thought away. It put him on edge and he wasn't sure why. Best to ignore it. He did not want to know the answer.

"Hold out your hands."

Without a word or a second thought she did.

With the movement the bells on her wrists jangled softly, a very loud sound in a land of silence and darkness. Holding her wrists gently but firmly, Dantal examined their make for a moment. They were finely crafted. Silver, and enchanted to prevent the wearer from removing the bands themselves. A cruel and ingenious prison for a child of the drow; shackles made of sound.

A knife appeared in Dantal's hand, seemingly from the air itself. Something flickered in Nadezdha's eyes, quicker than a heartbeat, so quickly the weapons master couldn't catch it. Was it fear? Confusion? Trust? It was hidden in an instant. Whatever the nature of his methods, Yuezaz had taught the art of reticence well. The expression on Nadezdha's young face was remarkably cool, almost detached. Dantal paused a few beats longer than necessary just to see how well she could maintain it. He was impressed with what he saw, she did not waver.

He took her forearm, looked her in the eye and, in a move too quick for her to follow, sliced through the leather band encircling her wrist.

The band and its cursed silver bells fell to the ground with one last discordant _clink_ and were silent at last.

Before the girl could even react the other cuffs, one on her other wrist and one on each ankle, were gone. As the last one hit the floor, Dantal was once again reclined in his seat, as though he had never moved. He watched and waited to see what his sister would do.

For what seemed an eternity she was perfectly still, a statue made flesh and blood. Only the near imperceptible rise and fall of her breath was any indication that she was real. Then, ever so slowly, she raised her arm and stared at her wrist, bare for the first time since her birth. She stared and stared, turning her wrist this way and that, as though she had never seen anything so beautiful in her life.

And then suddenly she was all light and movement. She spun, jumped and somersaulted, all in complete and utter silence. Her feet, callused and padded, made no sound on the stone floor. She made not a rustle, not a whisper as she moved. Seventeen years of having to be silent with bells on had trained her to be quieter than any of her drow counterparts. Dantal was amazed.

She danced about the room, not with much skill but with great grace and dignity, and all with a shining smile spread across her face. All the reticence training in the Underdark wouldn't be enough to contain her joy.

She came to a stop before Dantal and she fell to her knees and hugged his booted feet because, happy as she was, she was not bold enough to embrace any other part of him. She did take his hand, though, and she kissed his fingers. Then she turned the full force of her smile on him.

That smile could have melted his heart, had he possessed one. Perhaps, had Dantal been someone else, someone with more than ice water and bitterness in his veins, he would have tried to protect that smile, when the time came. It might have saved them. But, by the same token, it could just as easily have damned them both. Besides, the Underdark is the Underdark and 'what ifs' have no power against the will of a matron mother.

He would not regret that day, that wasted moment, because he did not know how. But he would remember. Just as he remembered the sound of breaking wings, he would remember that child's smile and how it was erased and how they turned her heart to stone. He would remember, the day he saw his own fate in a pair of yellow eyes.

---

Poisoned fangs snapped shut a hair's breadth above Y'entan's head. Panting, the boy pulled up after having dodged what would have been a crippling blow from Zavdra Ssarashi's snake whip. The priestess was livid. She advanced on the cowering child, whip held high.

"Zavdra, hold!"

Surprised as she was, Zavdra lowered her weapon and turned around at the sound of Matron Irryra's command. The matron mother, heavy with child, sat as regally as she could manage among the plush cushions of her throne. Her face was carefully painted, to hide the fatigue and stress that haunted her features.

"Killing the brat will hardly convince him to offer up what he knows," she rebuked. "He is worth more alive."

"We could always summon his spirit later and interrogate that," argued her daughter.

Irryra's tone was scathing. "That would be an unnecessary waste of precious time, spells and energy. Perhaps if you could learn to contain your impulses you would not be so far behind in the Seminary."

Shamefaced, Zavdra looked away and said nothing further. Irryra returned her attention to the child, Y'entan. Upon hearing that he wouldn't be killed, he had relaxed somewhat and was no longer cowering. Irryra decided to fix that.

She crooked a finger and beckoned him closer. Hesitating with nearly every step, the boy obeyed. As soon as he was within arms' reach, the matron grabbed him by the throat and jerked him forward. He struggled instinctively at first, then froze in fear at the deadly look in Irryra's eyes.

"Remember this, brat: We won't kill you, but there are many interesting ways to hurt you that won't cause your death-though no doubt you would wish it when we were through with you-and we won't hesitate to employ all of them if you do not tell us everything we want to know."

"I'm just a messenger!" said Y'entan, his panic rising as his air was choked off.

Irryra smiled. "That you are," she replied. "And as such no one will miss you if you disappear. Your life is worthless, but your information isn't. If you care to, you can buy your freedom with it. Make your choice."

Based on his options, it did not take long for Y'entan to reach a decision. He was a child of the Market after all. One didn't survive that environment without being shrewd to some degree.

"At your service, Matron," he said, bowing deeply.

"What house do you serve?" asked G'abre, standing a few paces behind her mother's chair, her arms folded.

"I serve no house, your ladyship."

"Then who do you deliver messages for?"

"Whoever pays me to, your ladyship."

G'abre's patience was wearing thin. "What message, then, were you delivering this time?"

Something in Y'entan's eyes glimmered darkly. "Mindiira Isryn is dead."

If he had been hoping to shock the host of priestesses gathered in that room, he was well rewarded. Fythriel, being young and foolish, was the first to speak.

"Matron! Why is this the first that we have heard of this?"

"Fythriel, hold your tongue!" snapped Irryra. She turned her attention back to the boy. "Where did she die?"

It was a curious question, under the circumstances, but Y'entan did not seem surprised.

"In her private office, in the Halls of Justice."

"Of course," said the matron. "That's why it's being kept secret…The magistrates wouldn't want anyone to see a hole in their fortress."

Matron Irryra didn't need to be told that Mindiira had been killed. Seeing as it was the leading cause of death in Maeralyn, murder was taken somewhat for granted.

"Yet how is it that a little commoner would know of this business?" she purred.

Y'entan lifted his head a little, setting his jaw proudly. "I was there."

Irryra raised an eyebrow. "You're a witness?"

"No!" Y'entan back-tracked quickly. Being a witness to anything in the city was nothing short of a death sentence. "I was…nearby"

"Why?"

"I had a package to deliver."

"Ah," said the matron. "What was in the package?"

Y'entan's eyes flickered. "It was sealed."

"Yes, but do you know what was in it? Careful how you answer, boy. We are powerful priestesses. We will know if you are lying."

The boy paled slightly as he imagined what punishments might be in store for him. He gulped.

"I know what it was," he mumbled.

"Yes?"

"A portrait."

Confusion settled like dust over the assembled priestesses. The only unperturbed person in the room was Irryra. Her face was a nearly blank slate, except for a single raised eyebrow, the only indication that she was still at all involved in the conversation. One of Matron Irryra's greatest talents was the ability to appear overwhelmingly bored in any and all demanding situations, especially when her mind was racing.

"Who sent the portrait?" she asked softly.

Y'entan's eyes shifted nervously. "They s-sent it anonymously," he stammered. "I…I p-picked it up at a warehouse, along with written instructions. I don't know who it was!"

"Ah," said Irryra. She leaned forward conspiratorially. "A word of advice, boy: Always know the names of the people you're doing business with…because chances are, they already know yours."

Dumbfounded, Y'entan nodded mutely. Irryra patted his cheek. It took all of his will not to flinch at her touch.

"There's a good boy," said the matron approvingly. "Now, who received your package?"

Looking down, he replied, "Mindiira Isryn."

"I thought as much. Now think carefully. When you delivered the package to Mindiira, was there anyone else there?"

Y'entan's head shot up. "What?"

"I don't repeat myself," said the matron coldly. "Answer the question."

He was too far in. There was no way out. Wincing inwardly, Y'entan forced himself to answer.

"Yes."

"Who?"

A long pause.

"Master Shath."

"Shath," whispered G'abre incredulously, without meaning to. Luckily, the word was lost in the ripples of conversation running through the room.

"Shath?" cried Zavdra. "He's nothing more than a cabinet maker!"

"He works in the Market," snapped Irryra. "Nobody is ever 'just' a cabinet maker in the Market."

She got to her feet, hiding well the difficulty her pregnancy gave her. She felt exhausted, and for a moment the room swam in front of her eyes, but she held herself proudly and imperiously nonetheless. As far as Irryra was concerned, a strong ruler never stayed stationary for too long. Her own mother had always kept herself locked away in her chambers, always still, ruling blindly. She had been weak, and she had fallen because of it. Irryra refused to make the same mistakes.

She glanced back at her throne, the same throne where her mother had died, choking for air as Irryra, the most ambitious of her daughters, stood smiling over her, holding a poisoned cup in her hands. The memory flashed through the matron's mind and faded in an instant, leaving Irryra to realize that Y'entan was still cowering behind her. She snapped her fingers and gestured at the boy.

"I'll be in touch," she said with a smile, and then turned her back on him.

As Y'entan was dragged from the room by a minor priestess, Irryra cast a sideways look at her eldest daughter.

"You've had dealings with Shath, haven't you G'abre?"

G'abre's hands twitched at her sides. "I have, Matron."

Irryra smiled. "Bring him in. I think it's time I met him, having heard so much about him, hmm?"

"Yes, Matron," replied G'abre through gritted teeth, her eyes burning with cold fury.

"That's settled then," said Irryra quietly. She turned away from her daughter to address the rest of her priestesses. "As for the rest of-"

She got no further. Suddenly overwhelmed by a wave of pain and nausea, Matron Irryra's knees buckled. Only by grabbing hold of the edge of Lloth's altar did she manage to keep herself from collapsing. Her insides clenched, and a cry of agony wrenched itself from her throat.

"Matron Mother!" shouted Zavdra, hurrying to her mother's side, followed closely by the others. All but G'abre, who hung back for a moment, hesitating. Then, with an almost feral snarl, she pushed her way to the front.

As G'abre knelt at Irryra's side, the matron grabbed her wrist, hard enough to bruise. Irryra's eyes were wild and she was shaking.

"It's time," she whispered.

Then she threw her head back and screamed.

---

Yuezaz pulled off the hood of his cloak and glanced about the hall suspiciously. It appeared to be empty, but that meant nothing. If anything it was disconcerting. The upper levels were almost never this deserted. Something was wrong.

The mage reached for one of the fire wands he kept on his person at all times. He kept his fingers wrapped around it, hidden under his cloak, as he walked. Despite his vigilance, he was still suddenly caught off-guard as he passed a tapestry depicting the founding of the city. He was grabbed by both arms and dragged into a nearby alcove. He struggled to pull out his wand, his mouth forming the trigger-word as he tried to aim.

Before he could utter the spell, his assailant spun him around and silenced him with a fierce kiss. Recognition flooded his senses and he responded, releasing the handle of his wand in favour of embracing his lover. She, in turn, wrapped her own arms around his neck, pulling him further into the kiss. She pushed him against the wall, pressing herself against him.

Yuezaz broke away and began trailing kisses along her neck, her jaw line, up to her ear.

"What are you doing here, Avnae?" he whispered hoarsely.

She entangled her fingers in his hair. "I have a message for you."

Avnae was one of those few lucky commoners in the city that had managed to gain a place in a noble house. Being a more than capable midwife, she ran the nursery, and normally kept her head down when it came to House politics, except where Yuezaz was concerned. She had an especial fondness for him, and none for the clergy, so she was willing to take a few risks for greater gain. He was always suitably grateful for the information she could offer him.

"What is it?"

Avnae gave his ear a playful bite. "Matron Irryra has given birth."

Yuezaz pulled back slightly. "So?" he asked derisively. "All that means is that in a few years we'll have another bratty priestess to bark useless orders at us. Why bother telling-"

Avnae silenced him again with another quick kiss. Smiling, she stroked his cheek and pulled him towards her.

"She has given birth," she whispered, her lips lightly brushing his ear. "To a son."

---

"Where are we going?"

Nadezdha couldn't resist the urge to ask questions, despite her brothers' orders. It was the first time since she had been taken in that she had stepped foot out of her brothers' rooms. As such she was bursting with curiousity.

She had been dressed in the livery of a page-boy, so as not to be noticed by any of her relatives. Pages are invisible, Yuezaz had said, and he was right. As the two of them walked through the halls of House Ssarash'i, no drow even looked in her direction. It was as though she no longer existed. Nadezdha couldn't help but wonder if this was what life had been like for her brothers, when they were children. It was strange to think of her brothers as children, thought Nadezdha, glancing up at the back of Yuezaz's head, but even they must have been once.

"Brother?" she tried again, "Where are we-"

"The Chapel," he answered shortly.

Nadezdha faltered for a moment, a cold stab of fear making her stumble. The memory of her mother's face flashed before her eyes. The scars on her feet throbbed. She tried to swallow, but her mouth had suddenly gone very dry.

"Why?" she asked, trying to keep her terror out of her voice. Yuezaz would not tolerate her weakness.

"You'll see," was all he said in reply.

When they arrived in the Chapel (far too quickly for Nadezdha's liking), a small crowd had already gathered, and some sort of ceremony was in full swing. The assembled drow were kneeling on the floor in a semi-circle around a raised dais where a host of priestesses, including G'abre and Zavdra, stood chanting an ancient prayer to Lloth.

Nadezdha and Yuezaz took their places, Yuezaz radiating displeasure at being forced to kneel. Stealing quick glances about the room, Nadezdha could see many of her cousins and other relatives in the crowd. Fythriel was there, being too young to take part in religious ceremonies. Commander A'einhin was a few rows down from them. He looked incredibly bored. Dantal was already there, kneeling as far away as he could from the dais while still within the boundaries of his station. Nadezdha was surprised to see that Dantal's head was bowed forward slightly. He looked…tired, but there was something more to his expression than that. Something almost troubled. Feeling her eyes on him, Dantal looked over at his little sister. She smiled shyly at him. He didn't smile back, but gave her a slight nod and turned his attention back to the ceremony, leaving Nadezdha to follow his example.

It was then that Nadezdha noticed something very strange. Matron Irryra was nowhere to be seen. Her throne was empty. Nadezdha was just beginning to consider the implications of this when the chanting ended and the other priestesses stepped back, leaving G'abre in the centre, holding a bundle in her arms.

There was a strange and frightening light in G'abre's eyes. They were unnaturally bright, almost feverish. She unwrapped the bundle, revealing tiny black hands, feet, a small sleeping face, a shock of white hair. A newborn drow. She held the infant aloft for all to see. The sudden movement woke the child, and when it opened its eyes, Nadezdha's breath caught in her throat. Yellow, the child's eyes were yellow, just like hers.

"I present Filian Ssarash'i," pronounced G'abre. "Third son of Matron Irryra!"

Elation surged through Nadezdha. A brother! She had a younger brother! In that moment, Nadezdha felt an outpouring of love for the tiny infant in her sister's hands. She wanted to hold him, to take care of him and teach him as her brother's had done for her. She wondered what great things Filian could accomplish. She imagined teaching him the drow handcode, magic and swordplay and how to avoid the ire of his sisters. He would be happy. He would laugh and call her 'big sister' and when they were older they would fight priestesses side by side, and drink deepwine and play _sava_ together in the evenings just as Yuezaz and Dantal did. She would take care of him, and he would love her and they would both be happy.

G'abre placed Filian down on the altar. The stone was cold, and the child began to whimper softly. Nadezdha felt a pang of concern. Why didn't G'abre wrap him back up?

The high priestess moved to the edge of the dais and turned to the giant carving of Lloth in spider form at the head of the Chapel. She began praying in archaic drow, the other priestesses chanting with her.

Nadezdha shivered, though not from cold. The room had taken on a smoky, claustrophobic feel to it. Nadezdha had the distinct impression that all of a sudden the statues could see her and were watching her. She turned to Yuezaz for reassurance but found none. Her brother had gone very tense, his eyes fixed on the dais. She looked over at Dantal and saw that he, too, was rigid, his hands clenched at his sides.

How easily it could have been me, thought Yuezaz, his brother's thoughts much the same. How easily I could have been born the third son. How easily the world could have been stolen from me. Silently, practically in unison, the two brothers prayed to Vhaeraun, giving him their thanks.

Looking back at the host of priestesses, Nadezdha started. Emerging from the smoke, like some sort of wounded demoness, was her mother, supported by two younger priestesses. The matron moved to the altar, gazing down at Filian with an expression of utmost hatred and revulsion. Slowly, she drew a dagger from her belt and held with both hands high above her infant son.

In the crowd, Nadezdha was frozen with horror. It was as though the rest of the world had fallen away, leaving only her mother, the child on the altar and that dagger, framed by the spider in the background; a picture forged from nightmares. Nadezdha wanted to run forward, to wrest that dagger from Irryra's grip, to snatch away her brother, but she couldn't move. She was rooted to the spot.

"We offer you this sacrifice to you, O Lloth," cried G'abre, in the throes of religious ecstasy. "May his blood please you and bring us everlasting glory!"

The chanting of the priestesses reached its climax and Irryra brought the dagger down.

For Nadezdha, the world stopped.

Then Filian screamed, high and piercing, a sound that would haunt Nadezdha for the rest of her life. The babe screamed, the priestesses continued chanting and the statues watched in silence.

Tears coursed down Nadezdha's cheeks. "Brother," she cried, turning to Yuezaz. "What is the meaning of this?"

"This," replied Yuezaz, his words like shards of ice, "is what it means to be drow."


End file.
